


Ritual

by lamardeuse



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-20
Updated: 2010-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 14:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The history of a ritual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ritual

**Author's Note:**

> For Cate.
> 
> Spoilers up to 5x06, The Shrine. Thanks so much to Kass for beta help! :) Thanks also to Frances Goodrich, Albert Hackett and Sidney Sheldon for a line shamelessly stolen from Easter Parade.

They started Beer on The Pier the night after Rodney didn't ascend.

“Beer on the pier? What's so great about that?” Rodney demanded.

“No, not beer on the pier, _Beer on the Pier_,” John corrected. “You know, it rhymes.”

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Can we just skip the rhyming and drink beer on the couch instead?” he complained. “I don't feel like walking all the way down there just to guzzle a few Miller Lites.”

John looked to Ronon and Teyla for support. “He's arguing. Make him stop arguing.”

Teyla smiled. “Rodney...” she began, but just then Ronon strode forward and passed her the bag of Doritos.

“Hold these,” he rumbled, then, bending at the waist, planted his shoulder against Rodney's middle, wrapped his arms around him and heaved.

“Jesus Christ!” Rodney exclaimed, as Ronon rose and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Quit wiggling,” Ronon told him, getting a firm grip on Rodney's calves.

“Put me down!” Rodney squeaked.

“You said you didn't feel like exercising.” Ronon raised an eyebrow at John's newly acquired fridge. “Don't forget the beer.”

John realized his mouth was hanging open, and shut it. “Sure,” he managed. Ronon turned and headed for the door, presenting John with a glaring, red-faced Rodney in full outrage mode. John knew he should say something, maybe even laugh, but he couldn't, because Rodney was real and solid and pissed off and right there and John was so goddamned _grateful _that he could barely breathe.

Smiling, Teyla handed John one six-pack, then picked up the other, and nodded an after-you. John remembered how to make his feet work just before it got embarrasing.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

After that, Beer on the Pier became a semi-regular event, a way for the team to wind down after a particularly hairy mission, or a way to celebrate on the rare occasions something worth celebrating happened. They shortened it to Bravo Papa, a code so that nobody else would steal their idea, John said.

Rodney snorted when John explained this, the day after they destroyed the Replicator planet. “Maybe you should copyright the name,” he drawled.

“Just for that, you're buying next time,” John retorted. Rodney narrowed his eyes at him but didn't say anything more, and Ronon grinned and slapped Rodney on the back so hard he almost pitched forward off the pier.

“Hey, watch it! Very valuable brain, here!” Rodney snapped. John reached up to grab Rodney's shoulder – to steady him, he told himself – and felt the warm, firm ridge of flesh-covered bone under Rodney's t-shirt.

“Not just that,” Ronon said, patting the top of Rodney's head like he was a golden retriever. Rodney squirmed and batted his hand away, but his mouth twisted into a faint smile, and it took John far too long to realize that he was still holding on to Rodney's shoulder for no good reason at all. As he withdrew, Rodney half-turned toward him, a tilt to his eyebrows that wasn't quite a question, but he was soon distracted by Ronon's offer of another beer.

“You're killing thousands of valuable brain cells,” John remarked.

Rodney snorted as he popped the tab on another Canadian. “Plenty to spare,” he said airily, and John had to hide a smile behind his own can.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
The first time they did Beer on the Pier without Ronon and Teyla was the night Rodney didn't propose to Katie. Rodney showed up at his door with an unreadable look on his face, which surprised John so much he just stepped aside silently, letting him in.

“Time for a little Bravo Papa,” Rodney said, “or, well, maybe a lot of Bravo Papa, actually.”

John's heart dove for his liver, buzzed it, then reversed thrusters. Truth was, John hadn't been looking forward to that celebratory beer, because hearing that Rodney was going to propose to Katie Brown had been one of the shittier moments of his life in recent memory, and he had a lot of moments to pick from. “Uh,” he said intelligently, “does that mean you – and she said – ” John winced when Rodney stared at him, uncomprehending. “Congratulations, buddy.”

“What? Oh. No. I, uh – ” Rodney waved his hands mutely, and John knew it was bad when all of Rodney's words had deserted him. “I didn't.”

John took a step forward. “Why not?”

Rodney's mouth twisted down. “Well, forgive me, but the threat of certain death doesn't thrill me romantically.”

“Hey,” John said, more softly than he'd intended. “There's always next time, right?”

Rodney shook his head. “No, there won't be. She, uh – look, can we just drink beer and not talk about it, like guys are supposed to do?”

“Sure, buddy, sure,” John said, heading to the fridge.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

“I like beeeeer,” Rodney sang, waving his fourth can in the air like a conductor's baton. “I like beer a _lot_.”

“Okay, no more for you,” John said, plucking the can from Rodney's moving hand. He'd traded with one of the scientists for some Danish brew because Ronon was getting bored with the Bud. What the hell did those crazy Danes put in this stuff? John held up the can and inspected the label. “Ten percent? Geez, no wonder you're out of your skull.” Hefting the can, he guessed it was about half full. Great. If Rodney didn't end up toppling into the ocean, it'd be a miracle.

“Hey, where'd my beer go?” Rodney demanded. “Gimme that back!” He swayed dangerously as he lurched toward John.

John laid the can down a safe distance away, then knelt behind Rodney, grabbed him under the armpits and hauled him back from the edge. When he let him go, Rodney stared down at his own shoes as though they were the most fascinating things in the universe.

“Yup, those're feet,” John said, sitting back down beside him. “You've got two of 'em.”

Rodney turned to him, beaming. “C'n I have my beer back now?”

“Nope,” John said pleasantly.

Rodney's face fell. “Katie's not gonna marry me.”

John resisted the urge to stroke Rodney's hair back from his forehead. “I know, buddy. That sucks.”

Rodney frowned. “I wasn' any good at it.”

“Proposing?”

“Bein' in love,” Rodney answered.

John grimaced and scratched the back of his neck. “It's not exactly something you have to be _good _at,” he said. “You either are or you aren't, that's all.”

Rodney folded his arms. “Y're only saying that because you _are _good at it,” he grumbled. “Y're a freak a'nature, that's what you are.” He frowned, then burped loudly. “Uh. I mean a nat'chral.”

“Yeah, well,” John shot back, before he could think better of it, “I wouldn't count on that.”

Rodney stared at him, wide-eyed, as though John had just refuted the law of gravity. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.”

“So y're bad at it too?” Rodney asked.

John took a deep breath. “Sort of,” he murmured.

“Whuzzat mean?” Rodney demanded, scowling.

“It means I fall for the wrong people, okay?” John snapped, exasperated. “People I can't have.”

Rodney made a scoffing noise, though in his advanced state of inebriation it came out more like the faint whistle of a boiling kettle. “Please. You can have anybody.”

“Sure. Whatever you say,” John muttered. He stared out at the water, hoping like hell that Rodney was done with this conversation. If there was one subject he didn't want to talk about right now, it was love, not when his gut was churning with a fucked-up mixture of relief and guilt from the knowledge there wasn't going to be a Mrs. McKay anytime soon. It was wrong to be happy at a time like this, and he wasn't, not really; honestly, he thought Rodney would've been miserable with Katie Brown, and vice versa, and what was more, they both had probably known it deep down. But the thing was, Rodney was miserable right now, and only a bastard would get off on watching him suffer.

And then he felt a hand touch his arm, and turned to see Rodney looking at him, his gaze far too focused for a guy with that much strong beer in him.

“What?” John demanded.

“I jus' – thanks,” Rodney murmured. “Y're a good friend.” And then, before John knew what the hell was going on, Rodney turned toward him and wrapped his arms around him. John had to lean into Rodney to keep him from toppling them both, had to hook an arm around Rodney's neck to steady himself.

John let it go on for as long as he could safely stand, and then, when Rodney showed no signs of easing up, patted Rodney on the back. “Hey, buddy, you, uh – ”

And then he heard the soft snore in his left ear, just as Rodney's arms went slack.

John sighed. “Okay. G'night then.”

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
When Rodney got sick, John felt like he'd been dropped into a wide river and was being carried along by the current with no hope of fighting it. Jennifer conducted her tests: drugs, antibiotics, radiation, stasis, and through it all, John sat or stood or paced nearby, and after each one the look on her face told him everything he needed to know. Rodney got more angry and frustrated, throwing off energy like a sun ready to go nova, and then he got scared and small, collapsing in on himself, an irreplaceable singularity, and through it all John watched and witnessed the changes, helpless. After their last Beer on the Pier, John dragged Rodney back to his quarters and sat in a chair all night by Rodney's bed, watching him sleep; in the morning, seeing Rodney open his eyes and say his name without hesitation felt like a victory, felt like finally seeing the shore for the first time in days.

And a little over a week later he was watching Rodney pairing up his peas on his tray, trying to remember how to count by twos, and he had to stand up and walk away, he had to, he suddenly couldn't do this for another second, and then Rodney called his name with that now-familiar note of fear in his voice, and John turned around and came right back.

“John,” Rodney ventured, frowning, after John had sat back down. “What comes after fourteen?”

“Sixteen, bud.”

“Right,” Rodney said, frown dissolving into familiar crinkles around his eyes that John missed after only a week. “I was jus' seeing if you remembered.”

“Good thing you're around to help me,” John said, letting his hand wrap around Rodney's forearm for a few moments, letting himself feel the warmth in Rodney's flesh and the steady pulse under his skin before letting go of him.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Jeanie's arrival was almost a relief, because now she could take over in inimitable McKay style, kick ass and take names and find the cure for Rodney's condition. John knew damn well she wasn't a medical doctor, but he still half expected her to turn her formidable brain to the problem and see the obvious solution they'd all overlooked, the one Rodney was too far gone to discover for himself.

But she didn't see anything but her broken, dying brother in front of her, and she turned to _John, _of all people, to tell her what to say to him, as though John hadn't been floundering for words every day for the past two weeks. He wanted to scream at her, to shake her until she _figured it out_, and that scared him so much that he forced every part of him to stillness before he answered her.

“It doesn't matter,” he said, and though it sounded like comfort, he'd never felt less inclined to give it. Jeanie seemed to sense that, because she lifted her chin just like Rodney and held his gaze for a long moment before turning away.

When Jeanie endorsed Ronon's proposal, and Ronon and Teyla argued for it with Woolsey, John was just so fucking grateful to have someone else take charge that he found himself going along with it, allowing himself to get caught up in the mission planning without thinking too much about the implications. It was only when he was sitting in the jumper after landing it near the shrine that he realized this meant he'd given up, that he was admitting Rodney was as good as dead, and he had to take short, sharp breaths through his nose to keep from losing what little breakfast he'd managed to force down that morning.

And then he felt two big hands descend on his shoulders, and for one long moment he let himself borrow their strength, let himself go just a little bit crazy.

“If it helps any,” Ronon rumbled, “I don't want to be here any more than you do.”

John closed his eyes and nodded. “I'll catch up,” he managed, and Ronon's hands left him.

“Don't forget the beer,” Ronon said, and John hid his face in his hands and quit fighting against the current for a minute.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
The night after Rodney was released from the infirmary, John, Ronon and Teyla planned the Bravo Papa to end all Bravo Papas, complete with the feast as promised. They were planning to surprise Rodney later, but for now there was a lot to do, including a tactical report for Woolsey, who hoped to turn the intel they'd gathered on the Wraith hives on their flypast to their advantage.

John tried to summon up some enthusiasm, but the truth was that he couldn't stop thinking about what Rodney had said to him in the cave. Or maybe not so much _what _he'd said, but _how _he'd said it, with that generous helping of anger laced with betrayal. John didn't blame him for feeling betrayed, for thinking John had given up too easily; he'd thought it himself enough times over the last couple of days, and that thought was what had kept him from stopping by the infirmary since they'd returned from the shrine. He knew he was being a coward, but he couldn't help it; the fear of seeing that hurt in Rodney's eyes while he lay in a hospital bed was too much for John to take. Once Rodney was upright, and John had a beer or two in him, he figured he could probably handle it.

He was on his way to the mess to wheedle a chocolate cake out of the head cook when Jennifer called him on the comm and asked him to drop by her office when he had a moment. For a chilling second and a half his gut plummeted for his boots as he ran a dozen scenarios in his head, each one more disastrous than the last, and then he told himself to get a fucking grip. Deciding to leave the cake for later, he turned on his heel and told the doc he'd be there in five minutes; after all, it didn't pay to let his brain have extra time to cook up more doom and gloom.

When he got there, the look on her face got him going again; she looked as stressed as he'd ever seen her, and that couldn't be good, no matter how hard you tried not to be a crazy person. Closing the door behind him, he crossed the room and stood in front of her desk, refusing the chair she indicated with a hand. “What is it?” he demanded without preamble.

Keller's eyes widened as she read whatever must have been on his face. “Oh. No, no. Rodney's fine, he's fine, all right?” and shit, John's knees actually wobbled like a rickety chair under a five-hundred pound man, and yeah, maybe he really did want a seat after all.

When he was sitting, she rose to her feet and walked around her desk, then sat on the edge in front of him, her hands knotted in her lap. “I, um. I don't know how to start this, so I guess I'll just – start.” She took a deep breath. “A few days after we found out he was infected, Rodney told me – he loved me.”

And okay, that was so far from what John had been expecting to hear that he sat there for a few seconds, totally stunned. When Keller showed no signs of continuing, he cleared his throat and said, “Uh, well, that's really nice, Doc, but I'm not sure what the problem is.”

Jennifer regarded him steadily. “Because I don't think he does.”

John frowned, confused. “Are you saying – he was lying to you? Because that's not –”

“No, I'm sure he believes what he says. But I think he loves – I don't know, I guess the _idea _of me, if that makes any sense.”

John rose from his chair; this was rapidly becoming one of the most uncomfortable conversations he'd had in a long time, and now that he knew Rodney wasn't dying, it was time to cut his losses and run away. “No, it doesn't. And listen, Doc, I really don't think this is any of my business, and I've got a date with a chocolate cake, so –”

“He's in love with someone else,” Keller said, stopping him in his tracks.

John raised his head. “Still none of my business,” he gritted, throat tight.

“Even if that person is you?” Keller said quietly.

John tried to look as blank as he could as he raised his gaze to her face. To her credit, Keller didn't even flinch.

“Look,” she murmured, “you don't have to admit anything to me – I understand the need for discretion. But don't try to tell me I didn't see what I saw the last couple of weeks. What happened to Rodney was terrible for all of us – but it was _killing _you.”

John's jaw clenched. “It doesn't matter,” he bit out, and boy, that was becoming one of his favorite phrases lately.

“Maybe if you talked to him,” Keller began, still infuriatingly calm, “let him know how you –”

“What the hell do you think he is?” John growled, taking a step toward her and feeling a sick sense of triumph when her eyes widened. “Some goddamned football to be passed around? If he says he loves you, he does. Why the hell would you even _think _of throwing that away if it was just – handed to you like that?”

“Because when there was nothing for him to smile about, I wasn't the person who could make him light up just by walking in the room,” Keller managed, voice unsteady but chin held high, still challenging him. “I wasn't the one he screamed for every night when he barely knew his own name any more.” When John stepped back, reeling, she sighed and added wearily, “This isn't altruism, John. If I thought he was mine to keep, I'd hold on as tight as I could, believe me. But I'm selfish enough to want to be that important to someone. And whether Rodney realizes it or not yet, I'm not that person.”

John nodded curtly. “Have you – talked to him?”

“No. I will, soon.”

“Fine. Just – not today, all right?”

Keller watched him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay,” she said, and John could only nod again before he finally fled.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

  
“Oh my god, I want to marry this ham,” Rodney said around a mouthful of sandwich.

Ronon chuckled. “You'd better propose fast before you swallow it all.”

“Ha ha,” Rodney said. “And extra hot Dijon – ohhhhh –” He trailed off into a groan of ecstasy that had John fidgeting.

“It is wonderful to see you enjoying yourself, Rodney,” Teyla said warmly, putting an arm around him and squeezing.

Rodney gulped down the last of his sandwich and smiled. “Thanks. It's good to be – enjoying myself. With, um, with all of you.” He shot a glance at John, who suddenly found his beer fascinating.

Teyla let go of him with a final pat and stood. “John, did you bring the dessert?”

“Dessert?” Rodney asked. “There's dessert?”

“Course there's dessert,” Ronon said, nudging Rodney with his shoulder. “What do you think we are?”

“I, uh,” John floundered, looking in the basket he'd brought with him. “I could have sworn I – oh, crap.” He'd meant to stop by the kitchen to pick up the cake before heading down to the pier, but he'd totally forgotten. It had to still be sitting in the mess, waiting for him. “Sorry. I'll go get it now.”

He made to rise, but was halted by Teyla's firm hand on his shoulder. “Stay. I must check on Torren; I'll stop by the mess on my way back.” She tilted her chin at Ronon. “Will you come with me, Ronon, in case I am delayed?”

John watched, helpless, as a silent conversation went on over his head between Ronon and Teyla, while Rodney dug in the cooler for another beer, oblivious. “Sure,” Ronon grunted, rising to his feet and following behind Teyla as she headed for the transporter.

When Rodney finally came up for air with his can of Lowenbrau, he looked around, confused for a moment. “Where'd they go?”

“Went to get the cake,” John answered, taking a long swig of his own beer, then wincing when he realized he'd given away the last surprise of the night.

“Oh, wow, cake? What kind?” Rodney sounded so eager and – well, childish – that John felt his heart stutter in his chest. He looked over at him, half-expecting to see Rodney's face had gone slack, his gaze vacant, but his expression was just as bright-eyed and keen as always, and for a moment John forgot how to breathe, it was so damned beautiful.

“John?” Rodney frowned, breaking the spell, and John shook himself out of his stupor.

“I, uh, chocolate. It's chocolate.”

“With chocolate icing?”

John raised his eyebrows. “What do you think?”

Rodney grinned, and John nearly fumbled his can of beer. Once his hands were firmly wrapped around it, he took another sip.

“You, um – well. Thanks,” Rodney said quietly.

John's head snapped up. “You already thanked us.”

“Not for this,” Rodney said, hand sweeping to encompass the cooler, the basket, the pier. “I – I remember what I was like, those last few days. And – well, I'm sorry I put you through that.”

John frowned, because that didn't make any sense; Rodney couldn't help getting sick, it wasn't his fault, and they both knew that. And then he felt a cold chill march up his spine as the implication sank in. “Do you mean – what the hell do you mean?” he demanded.

Rodney scowled. “You know what I mean,” he said, with another wave of his arm. “All that – whining and crying. It was ridiculous, the way I kept calling for you. And I'm sorry that I –”

“Don't,” John said, because Christ, it wasn't like he'd _enjoyed _seeing Rodney that helpless and needy, but if it was the only time John was ever going to have when he was the most important person in Rodney's life, he wanted to hang onto it, and now Rodney was trying to take it away, and John couldn't _let _him. “I mean – uh. It wasn't – I didn't mind.”

“Well, I did,” Rodney said, face pinched in distaste. “I wish I could just forget the whole thing, but –”

“You want to forget,” John said hollowly, setting his beer down and clenching his fists in his lap.

Rodney actually chuckled, a dry, uncomfortable sound. “That I was a helpless, mewling vegetable? Yes, strangely enough, I really do. Don't you?”

“I want to forget that you almost _died_,” John heard himself snap, his voice high and thin and strange to his own ears, “but I couldn't give a shit about the other stuff.” And that wasn't quite true, because if Rodney had stayed like that for the rest of his life, it would've been, from Rodney's perspective, a fate worse than death, John understood that.

But it wouldn't have made John love him any less.

Rodney cleared his throat. “Well, yes, I see your point, but still, it's mortifying that I –”

And that was the point at which something small and yet vital in John's brain snapped and said, _Fuck it_, and he turned toward Rodney and leaned in close and rasped, “You want to know what really sucks, Rodney? To have to keep your mouth _shut _when there's nothing you want more than to be able to yell for what you need.” He met Rodney's startled gaze; this close, John could observe every minute change of expression, could see every subtle gradation of color in Rodney's irises. “For who you need.”

Rodney's mouth opened and closed like a fish's, and even this close, John still had no idea what was going on in his head. “You – um. You're not saying – I mean, you don't mean –”

John silenced him with a hand on his chin and a terrified press of lips that Rodney, unsurprisingly, didn't return. When he pulled back, he didn't look at Rodney, just rose to his feet and started walking as quickly as he could.

As he headed for the city, he forced himself to ignore the sound of Rodney's voice calling his name over and over again.

  


    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

When John finally got back to his quarters three hours later, he wasn't really surprised to find Rodney waiting for him, though he was a little surprised to see him stretched out on his bed, fast asleep. He sat down hard on the bed and got no reaction, so he removed one of his boots, raised it high and let it fall to the floor.

“Wha? What? What's happening?” Rodney demanded, sitting bolt upright, eyes staring. He blinked at his surroundings, then took in John and frowned. “Oh. It's you.”

“You were expecting someone else to show up in my quarters?”

Rodney glared at him. “Don't change the subject.”

“I don't want to talk about this, Rodney,” John said flatly. “Now, if you'll just quit playing Goldilocks, we can –”

“After you manfully scurried off with your tail between your legs,” Rodney interrupted, folding his arms, “I didn't feel much like celebrating any more, so I called Ronon and Teyla and told them I was tired and turning in early. Which I fully intended to do, by the way, because I was beginning to think I'd hallucinated the whole thing and needed to sleep it off. But then I ran into Jennifer in the hall, and somehow – I'm still not exactly sure how – she ended up explaining my entire psyche to me in twenty-five hundred words or less.”

John hung his head. “Damn. I asked her to wait.”

There was a dangerous beat of silence. “The two of you talked about me?”

“She did most of the talking, believe me,” John said, wincing.

“Yes, she's exceedingly good at that. I could barely get a word in edgewise.” John dared a glance at him, and saw Rodney lift his chin. “She has some interesting theories about me. And you.”

John closed his eyes briefly. “Did you tell her what – uh – what happened tonight?”

Rodney's mouth turned down. “No. Strangely enough, I don't tend to be all that inclined to dish the dirt with women who are jilting me.”

John winced again. “Listen, just because she's got this thing stuck in her head, that doesn't mean you can't change her mind. If you want her, you just have to be persistent, and maybe she'll –”

“Yes, that's lovely, only there's one small problem with your plan,” Rodney snapped. “I'm starting to think that she's right.”

John's heart stopped. “About...”

“Well, it doesn't take a degree in psychology to know she's right about you,” Rodney drawled, “so who the hell do you think I'm talking about?”

“You are such a sarcastic bastard,” John breathed.

Rodney folded his arms. “And you're just figuring this out now?”

John forced his fist to loosen so that his hand could slide up Rodney's bicep, over his shoulder, up to his neck. When John's thumb caressed the underside of Rodney's jaw, Rodney sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes widening.

“Nope,” John murmured. “Just missed you.”

“John, Jesus,” Rodney whispered, staring at him. John knew he was staring back, and he didn't care, because he could now, and nobody was there to catch him doing it. And there was nobody to see him leaning in toward Rodney, nobody to take note if his gaze shifted to Rodney's pink, lopsided mouth.

When Rodney's mouth was an inch from his own, John stopped. Rodney's tongue darted out to wet his own lips, and John bit back a groan. “Can I?” he whispered.

“Can you what?” Rodney whispered back.

John's hand tightened on Rodney's neck; he fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Kiss you?”

Rodney frowned. “Well, how would I know that's what you meant? It's not like you asked my permission before. Quit stalling and just – do it.”

John's fingers slid against the grain of the short hairs on the back of Rodney's neck. His fingertips tingled; he wondered vaguely if he was having a stroke. “Just do it?” His lips brushed Rodney's in the barest of caresses. “What is this, a Nike ad?”

Rodney exhaled a soft breath against John's mouth, and John rewarded him with a gentle tug of Rodney's lower lip between both of his. “No, it's – oh, my,” Rodney said, as John swept his tongue along Rodney's upper lip. “I, John, I – ”

John bit Rodney's chin. “Yeah?” He pulled back just enough to look into Rodney's face, but his eyes were squeezed shut, and John hesitated, worried he'd pushed it too far. But then Rodney's eyes flew open, and before John could react he'd tilted his head and leaned in, mouth hungry and searching, and John groaned and gathered a fistful of Rodney's t-shirt and held on.

Rodney broke it off when it started to get a little crazy, when they were plastered up against one another and panting into each other's mouths and John couldn't get his heart to slow down and they were both shaking, fingertips stuttering over exposed skin on forearms and wrists. John caught one of Rodney's wandering hands in his when it trailed along his pulse point, making him shiver hard.

“Oh, god,” Rodney gasped, squeezing John's fingers with his own, “I can't believe – why didn't you tell me I was in love with you?”

John shook his head, making his forehead roll against Rodney's. “I told you,” he said, “I'm bad at this, too.”

“You also said you fall for people you can't have.”

John raised his head to find Rodney grinning at him, that real, honest grin he'd never lost. “Yeah,” John agreed, when he could find his voice.

“You meant me, didn't you?” There was a look of triumphant pride on his face, like Rodney had just figured out a way to make new ZPMs, and John had to kiss him.

“What do you think?” John asked.

“Well.” Rodney's chin lifted. “You can – you can have me.”

Grinning himself now, John leaned in for another kiss. “Cool,” he said.

Rodney pulled back and stared at him. “'Cool?' Is that all you can say?”

John pretended to think about it, pursing his lips and tugging on his earlobe. “Uh, how about – 'thanks'?”

“Oh, you – ” Rodney muttered, shoving at John until he was on his back. Swinging one leg over John's hips, Rodney stripped off his t-shirt, then started wrestling John out of his. “Lift up, no, up,” Rodney ordered, and John fervently hoped Rodney couldn't feel how hard he'd just gotten, because he'd be _insufferable _if he found out how much John liked his bossy voice.

Then again, John figured, maybe he could live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> First published September 2008.


End file.
